


After the Ball

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Affection, Desperation, Hand Jobs, Holding Hands, Kissing, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-26
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-01 10:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4015573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Travelling home with Moriarty from a ball where they have been obliged to dance with other partners all evening, Moran is frustrated over being deprived contact with the professor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After the Ball

    Moran is, generally speaking, a patient man, at least when he has a clear sense of what he is waiting for. When he is out on a special errand for the professor, awaiting – sometimes for hours, occasionally even for days – the perfect moment to take a shot, then he can remain composed and cool. But this is trying his patience. All evening he has been denied close contact with his professor. A gaggle of ageing gossipy women did so insist that the professor and his _rather dashing_ companion be paired up with a succession of unattached women, seemingly intent on playing matchmaker for either or both of them. Moran admires women very much and some of the ladies were certainly charming. In other circumstances, in another life, he might even right at this very moment be bedding one (or even more) of them. But being forced into dancing with them and engaging in inane conversations with them; being whisked away to partner yet another ‘delightful young lady’ each and every time he so much as glanced in the professor’s direction…

     “Pah!” he exclaims, realising only a second later from Moriarty’s glance at him that he has uttered this aloud.

     “Something wrong, pigeon?” the professor enquires. He reaches across the carriage with a gloved hand, clasping Moran’s hand and drawing it over into his lap.

     “That ball was a peculiar form of torture, Professor.” Moran tugs at his collar with his free hand.

     “Indeed, but it pays to be social now and again.”

     Moran grimaces. “I can be social down the pub.” Though he finds his gaze drawn back to regard the professor. He looks exquisite, Moran thinks, in his beautifully cut evening suit, far more elegant than in his customary attire in his role as mathematics tutor or when he is dealing with other matters.

     A thin smile crosses Moriarty’s face. “You are saying you would rather have gone to some insalubrious East End drinking establishment than accompany me?” He laughs warmly, for he knows his Sebastian would want to follow him even into hell. “Besides, I have seen you in the pub; you prefer your solitude even there.”

     Moran chuckles. “I s’pose.”

     Moriarty pats Moran’s hand gently. “Attending these events will reap great rewards in the long run, you shall see. Appearing respectable; forging connections; these are vitally important things.”

     “Right sir.” Moran bows his head slightly and closes his eyes. He savours the touch of the professor’s hand on his, even with the contact diminished by their gloves. It is more than he has had of Moriarty during the rest of the night, though he craves far more of course. He wants to draw the professor to him, or be drawn into Moriarty’s arms. He wants to breathe in the professor’s scent; he wants to taste him; he wants the professor inside him. The carriage is neither private nor large enough for anything more however and he has no sense either that the professor even desires anything more tonight, so he must make do with this much for now.

     “You look very fine tonight, Sebastian,” Moriarty tells him, leaning forward slightly so that Moran can hear him clearly even though he drops his voice a little.

     The colonel may be far more comfortable acting as if he is common as muck but even in his every day life Moran is never slovenly. Tonight though, with the colonel in his smarter evening attire, Moriarty has not been oblivious to the fact that his companion is perfectly capable of presenting himself as a fine gentleman. Entering into the grand house earlier with Moran beside him he had noted the admiring glances that were cast in the colonel’s direction and he had felt not jealous, but proud – proud that he and he alone has tamed this magnificent tiger. Others may covet the colonel but Moran is _his_.

     “You certainly scrub up very nicely,” he says softly, skating his fingers over Moran’s glove, letting his fingertips brush over the bare skin beneath his shirt cuff. Moran’s gaze remains lowered as Moriarty does this, as if he cannot bring himself to meet the professor’s gaze yet, perhaps fearful that if he does he will simply _have_ to kiss him. Moriarty watches the bob of Moran’s Adam’s apple as he swallows; he notices how Moran’s lips part slightly as his breathing quickens ever so slightly.

     “Professor,” Moran says, and there is the slightest hitch in his voice.

     “You have been very good this evening, my dove.” Moriarty continues to rub his gloved fingertips over Moran’s skin. “I think that you deserve a more immediate reward.”

    Now Moran’s gaze flicks up to meet his questioningly. “Sir?”

    “We should be home in another minute or two,” Moriarty informs him, holding Moran’s gaze until he is sure that Moran understands.

      Moran grins wickedly. “Right sir.”

 ~

     Overcoats and hats are shed in the hallway; gloves pulled off as they walk up the stairs. Here still they must act with maddening slowness, pretending there is no great urgency about it, or perhaps for the more controlled and controlling Moriarty there truly isn’t. Perhaps only Moran alone wants to charge up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time if needs be, and slam open the bedroom door and frantically tear off clothing. The professor spoke of a more immediate reward but perhaps even so his idea of immediacy is somewhat relative. Walking up behind Moriarty, Moran barely suppresses a groan at the thought that his lover might wish to dally over things, taking his time to undress and change into more comfortable attire.

     Moran’s fears though are needless. The instant they are in the bedroom and the door is locked behind them the professor is upon him, hauling him close into a kiss that starts off rough and possessive but becomes more about passionate affection the longer it goes on. Somehow (Moran pays little attention to the specifics of it) in between kisses he gets Moriarty’s coat and tie off, and the professor gets him out of his coat, tie and waistcoat. His shirt comes next, Moriarty undoing the studs with surprising speed. Then the professor’s hands are at his waist, deftly undoing his trousers with far greater care than Moran’s fumbling at the buttons of the professor’s trousers. Greater experience, it seems, counts for very little when he is so desperate he can barely think; when his thoughts are consumed solely by the feel of Moriarty’s lips and tongue against his; of the professor’s taste; his scent of cologne and hair oil and warm skin.

     A sharp sudden push against his chest breaks the kiss and with a startled gasp Moran falls back onto the bed, though he makes no attempt to rise again, trusting entirely in the professor. Instead he lies there panting and watches as Moriarty stoops down. Neatly the professor undoes Moran’s laces and slides off shoes, then socks, before directing his attention back to the colonel’s trousers. Moran, still barely coherent, squirms out of his trousers and underthings as Moriarty helps draw them from him, and he pays no heed to where they end up. He is hardly aware either of Moriarty removing his own shoes and socks.

     “Professor,” he breathes as Moriarty straddles him and he bucks up to meet him, his now entirely naked body rutting against the professor’s still largely clothed one. His hands reach for Moriarty’s head first though, his fingers tangling in the professor’s hair as their mouths meet again. What had been so neatly slicked down earlier becomes tousled within seconds, before he manages to direct his attention to the professor’s remaining clothing. His hands are shaking with want and need he cannot suppress as he tries to work Moriarty’s waistcoat undone, and he hears the professor laugh softly at this.

     “Steady, steady on my boy.” Moriarty takes pity on him and undoes the waistcoat himself, dropping it aside with a surprising lack of concern. But then now even his coherence and self-control is compromised as Moran works Moriarty’s trousers down his hips and suddenly one of the colonel’s large, strong, slightly calloused hands is inside his drawers, wrapping around his stiffening prick. “Sebastian,” he hisses, biting his lip and closing his eyes briefly, trying to regain his control; trying to ignore how good it feels. “Not yet.” He flicks his eyes open.

     Moran looks up at him again, pausing in his stroking the professor’s length. “Sir?”

     “Get my trousers and drawers off properly first,” Moriarty commands him.

     Moran smirks. “Yes sir.” He continues sliding the trousers down and throws them carelessly aside. Moriarty’s drawers come off next and are discarded with just as little care for where they fall. Moriarty’s shirt though remains on; its removal seems needless for both of them. When Moran slides his hands over Moriarty’s buttocks, pulling the professor back on top of him, Moriarty allows this, and he inclines his head slightly to kiss Moran’s mouth again briefly before dropping down further to kiss Moran’s throat, then to nip at his collarbone.

     “James, James, fuck!” Moran cries, throwing back his head as the professor moves even further down to bite gently at a nipple. His fingers tangle even more roughly in Moriarty’s hair in an unwitting response both to the pain and the pleasure it provokes in him. “Fuck, James!” Usually Moran does not lapse into use of Moriarty’s first name until he climaxes but tonight it seems decorum is being tossed aside. He bucks up against Moriarty again, his heels digging into the bed as his back arches.

     When Moriarty shifts back up to kiss his mouth again Moran kisses back hungrily, desperately, sealing their mouths so closely together that both of them feel soon they can barely breathe; until they feel almost giddy, delirious even. Moriarty still does not understand kissing, not truly, but how much Moran craves it; how much he revels in it excites him even so, and so he continues to kiss Moran fervently.

    Moran moves his hands up and down Moriarty’s back, slipping them beneath his shirt, wanting – _needing_ – even more skin to skin contact even as their naked lower halves press together; as his stiff cock rubs against the professor’s arousal. Still kissing intensely, Moriarty slides his hand between their bodies, grasping Moran’s prick, drawing it even closer against his own, curling his fingers around both of the shafts. The action is something he has done enough times before for it to be almost instinctive by now; something done without much conscious thought, the same as kissing has become. Familiarly has not bred contempt in this case but only made him even more confident about his sexual domination of Moran, helping him to feel more relaxed about sex and therefore greatly enhancing his own satisfaction as well as his companion’s.

     “James,” Moran says again, in a brief snatched moment between their frantic kisses, and he smiles as he slips his hand over Moriarty’s, closing his fingers around the professor’s so that both of their hands are wrapped around both of their cocks, pumping them together. Once he would have done so more to guide the comparatively inexperienced professor but now this is done to make it a truly shared act of mutual pleasure. “God, James, I-”

      Moriarty clamps his mouth over Moran’s again before Moran can say anything more but that is all right with the colonel. He pants into the professor’s mouth, feeling almost like he is suffocating, no, _drowning_ ; as if the professor would steal all the air from his lungs; as if he is falling inexorably into the depths of him, deep within those blue-grey eyes that meet his own blue ones intensely, challengingly, possessively, but not without amusement and affection showing within them also.

     Moran clings to Moriarty’s back with one hand whilst still their hands move together, stroking their cocks in that shared rhythm which even when it becomes more erratic, even when it falters and stutters as it becomes ever harder to continue the movements with the waves of sensation rippling through their bodies, still involves the two of them working together. A few more pumps of their hands and they are climaxing in almost perfect unison, still with their mouths pressed together, their breath mingling as they spend. Perhaps Moran starts to come a second before Moriarty but it is so close as to pass unnoticed as their combined release spills into their hands, coating both their fingers.

     A few seconds after the professor goes very still and tense above Moran, Moriarty slumps against him. He shifts his mouth from Moran’s, moving to kiss down Moran’s neck again.

      “James, James, my James,” Moran murmurs, sounding rather breathless but intensely happy. As Moriarty half rolls off him, shifting onto his side, Moran buries his face, eyes closed, against the professor’s neck, where his shirt is open just enough for Moran to press his nose into the hollow at the base of his throat and inhale his scent. “I wish…” he says after a few seconds, opening his eyes again. “I wish I could’ve danced with you at the ball.”

     Moriarty gives him a fond, lazy smile. “I would have liked that too, pet,” he says, “but you know it cannot be.” For there are rules about such things and while there may be certain scenarios where men dancing with men is deemed acceptable, if anything then male partners were in rather short supply at tonight’s ball. Under such circumstances the pair could hardly defy conventions and insist upon dancing together. The professor is not ignorant however of the irony of the fact he finds it really quite easy to break the laws against such serious crimes as murder and theft but even he finds himself bound unavoidably at times by all the petty social norms.

     “I know.” Moran sighs slightly as he rests his head against Moriarty’s shoulder. He half closes his eyes again, pondering something, not opening them even when Moriarty wipes the mess from their hands with his handkerchief. “Would you really have liked it?” he asks finally, glancing at the professor’s face. “A public display of affection?”

     “Dancing with you? Of course.” Moriarty folds the soiled handkerchief up neatly and sets it aside.

     “I just find it hard to imagine you wanting that, wanting to be more open about us, even if it were legal.”

      A smile crosses Moriarty’s face, touching his lips first, then his eyes. “My dearest Moran.” He pats his lover’s arm gently. “It is true that greater openness about our intimacy might endanger us, even were we to live in a world where our relations are perfectly legal. Some might see my affection for you, or yours for me, as a weakness to be exploited, but such openness would also have its advantages.”

     “Oh?”

     “It would stop those would-be matchmakers from trying to foist every eligible young lady upon us.” Moriarty grins more broadly, and Moran too laughs at this.

     “I’m not sure even that’d stop some of ‘em though,” he says with a smile. “I mean don’t get me wrong, Professor, some of ‘em were real beauties, but I ain’t gonna marry any of ‘em.”

     Moriarty closes his eyes as he settles back against the pillow. “I should hope not.” He wriggles about slightly, trying to find the most comfortable position. “If I thought you were so enamoured of some young lady that you wished to wed her then I’m afraid I would have to have her killed.”

     Moran regards him for a moment as Moriarty opens one eye and looks at him, appearing entirely solemn and serious for some seconds, before he grins. Moran laughs again.

     “You’re incorrigible,” he says.

     “That is why you stay with me.”

     “Maybe so.” Moran rolls over him and gives him a gentle peck on the lips. He might have stopped there, content with that, but the professor slips a hand around the back of Moran’s head and draws him back into another more passionate kiss. This one is slower and far less intense than their kisses of earlier, in part because there seems no need for that now; in part because their lips feel rather tender still, but even so both part their lips and still there is that smooth glide of tongue against tongue. Moriarty still may not truly understand the appeal of kissing, Moran thinks, but he has certainly become quite expert at it.

      “We should get washed and changed,” the professor remarks at last, drawing back from the kiss but leaving his hand cupping Moran’s head briefly. Gently he smoothes down some of the most ruffled locks of the colonel’s hair. “And you should pick up our clothing and sort it out properly; it will not do to leave it in that state.”

      Moran casts a glance down at the scattered evening wear across the floor. “You threw half of it down like that,” he points out. “Why’d I have to sort it all out?”

     “Because, my dove,” Moriarty tells him, leaning forward to give him another gentle kiss on the lips, “you do so enjoy serving me.”

     Moran laughs against the professor’s lips. “That still don’t mean you can take liberties with me.”

     “Can I not?” Moriarty draws back again, lifting an eyebrow as he regards his companion with a sly smile. He rests his hand against Moran’s collarbone as he idly rubs the pad of his thumb against the base of Moran’s throat.

     Moran drops his gaze, still laughing. “All right,” he admits, “maybe you can.” Still grinning he slides off the professor, slipping off the bed. He lights the bedside lamp before moving to retrieve the discarded clothing.

     Moriarty lies back against the pillow again and watches Moran pick up and sort the clothes. From here he has a fine view of Moran’s naked body and while it is not a sight that will ever particularly inflame his passions, he admires Moran’s lean yet muscular form. Still the colonel has a soldier’s physique, scarred of course, but with a wiry strength to his body. Moriarty knows the power of those muscles better than most for he knows Moran’s body far more intimately than anyone else, even all of Moran’s countless past sexual partners. He has seen both Moran’s cocky, domineering side and his submissive, vulnerable one; he has seen the colonel both atop him and kneeling before him; he has had Moran’s hands pinning his wrists down and witnessed them tugging futilely against his restraints as he writhes and moans under the professor. Such a creature of contrasts.

     As Moran stoops to retrieve Moriarty’s shoes he notices that the professor is still watching him. “See something you like, sir?” He deliberately takes his time in straightening up, rather flaunting his bare backside.

     Moriarty sighs, though not without some amusement. “Sometimes, Sebastian, you remind me of little more than an animal in heat.”

     Moran grins still as he stands up straight and turns to face the bed. “I’ve never heard you telling me to stop it though.”

    “Get on with putting the clothes away!”

     Moran gives him a sharp, mocking salute. “Aye sir!” Even so, despite his playfulness he is diligent about tidying up, stowing the shoes neatly paired up in the bottom of the wardrobe and carefully hanging up the clothing; placing cufflinks and shirt studs back in their box, putting the ties in the drawer and setting the socks and shirt collar aside to be laundered.

    “Perhaps a light supper would be in order shortly,” Moriarty says after a time, looking up at the ceiling.

    “Mm, that food they gave us at the ball weren’t enough to feed a sparrow,” Moran concurs. “Besides, tupping often gives me an appetite.” He saunters back to the bed, where Moriarty is now pulling himself to sit upon its edge. “You taking that shirt off tonight or not?” He drops onto the professor’s lap, straddling him, and begins to undo the remaining studs of Moriarty’s dress shirt.

    “Moran,” Moriarty murmurs as his companion pauses in undoing the shirt.

     Moran prefers momentarily to slip his hand beneath the fabric instead to stroke the professor’s chest. “Professor.” He stills with his hand resting over Moriarty’s heart, feeling its beat beneath his palm, before he leans forward to kiss the professor again. This kiss is entirely without heat or passion; this is purely a gentle press of his closed lips against Moriarty’s and it lasts only for a couple of seconds. Even so it expresses a great deal.

     Moriarty smiles as Moran resumes unfastening the shirt and helps him out of it. “Thank you, Sebastian.”

     A grin flickers briefly across Moran’s face in response. “You should put your dressing gown on so you don’t catch cold,” he says as he puts the shirt back on its hanger. It too will need to be laundered but that is a matter for another day. “I’ll go fetch some hot water.” He tosses Moriarty’s dressing gown to him before pulling on one of his own. Just as he is about to leave the room though the professor calls out to him.

     “Sebastian.” Wrapped in his dressing gown now, he sits serenely upon the edge of the bed.

     His hand resting on the door knob, Moran turns back to face Moriarty. “Mm?”

    “I meant what I said, you know.”

    “About what?”

    “About wanting to dance with you at the ball. I would have liked to show you off properly – to let people know that you are mine.”

    “And that you are mine also in return?” Moran queries, meeting the professor’s gaze intently. Despite the seeming power imbalance in their relationship he knows that things have shifted dramatically from when they first met; from when he first entered into Moriarty’s employment and neither of them had the slightest inkling of just where their relationship would end up. Moriarty is and will likely always be his master but Moran is no powerless slave and they both know this. Even so, Moran knows too that the professor – the man who greatly values logic and reason and order – is even more reticent than him about speaking of such matters. To do so is to acknowledge that here are things he cannot fully control – feelings; emotions; desires – and the notion of losing his control is one of the very rare things that genuinely frighten the professor. To admit, even only to Moran, that the colonel has such power over him should  _terrify_ him.

    Moriarty regards Moran for a few seconds before he drops his eyes. “Yes,” he says softly.

    Moran sees not fear in the professor’s expression though but some quiet satisfaction. He notices the corner of the professor’s mouth pull into a small smile as Moriarty lifts his gaze to look at Moran again.

    “Yes,” he repeats, still smiling. “I am yours also in return.”

   Moran makes no response aloud but his broad grin at these words says more than any words could. Moriarty watches him practically swagger from the room, amused by the genuine pleasure Moran seems to obtain from his admission. It is not an easy thing to confess, by any means, but there is something deeply gratifying in Moran’s reaction to his words.

    The professor cannot give Moran everything, even if he would like to do so. He cannot give him public displays of his regard for him; he cannot advertise their intimate relationship to the world, nor can he ever fully obliterate all the pain caused by the colonel’s past suffering. However, he thinks – the sexual intimacy; the kisses and caresses; his kindness and affection; even his rare admission that he is indeed committed to Moran; this much he can give to him.


End file.
